discolored hands
by Kazura
Summary: The colors start shining brighter, ebbing in and out of existence, but not really, not really, as he starts to understand. It is not difficult to deduce, not when the world starts being drained of the reds and blues and violets, leaving only the dullest monochrome.


**a delicate child of life**

He awakens to the muffled sounds of her cries.

It is nothing new, nothing surprising, but it makes his heart beat so furiously all the same as he rises from the thinnest makeshift bed on the cold floor, for this is something that he cannot simply get used to—

No, to get used to this would say that he has long accepted it, and accepting the situation that they have found themselves in would not be different from admitting a defeat that he cannot possibly afford.

Still, there is no denying it, how his body has learned to respond appropriately, as if it has become a reflex, one that manages to ease his own pain.

It is a contradiction, one that he has learned to love and loathe, and it all boils down to a frustration that he cannot ignore, as it demands his attention with the strongest conviction.

That is why, with this path ahead of him, a path that he is forced to take, he turns to that frustration, letting it spread throughout his whole body, using it as a fuel, one that would last as long as he needs it to, and it serves its purpose well.

"I'm here," he whispers the very moment she is cradled in his arms. "I'm here." As if reciting a spell, he repeats his words, over and over and _over_, the slightest hope that it would bring a sense of peace for her, if not him, lacing every syllable.

What goes unsaid, what goes unheard, is the sheer desperation that questions, "Why?" If there must be one to suffer, why can it not be him? If there must be one to feel pain, why can it not be him? If there must be one whose life is threatened by the power that exists within them, why can it not be him?

If his sister must suffer like this, why can he not take the pain away? Why can he not shoulder her pain? Why not him? Why her? Why? Why? Wh—

"Are you hurting, too?"

Before he can even look down, he feels them, the small hands that now move delicately against his cheeks. Meeting his gaze is the determined little face of his sister, his baby sister. Just as his breath hitches at the sight, his every limb grows weak, but he manages, manages not to collapse under everything, every single thing that overwhelms him. Barely, just barely, he _manages_, if only for her sake.

He does not answer, not with words, not with the fear of what he might end up saying taking the firmest grip it can possibly hold around his heart. He breathes, breathes in deeply, as he simply mirrors his sister's actions, wiping the tears that have stained her cheeks.

"I'll be fine," he hears himself choke out, to which his sister furrows her brow in response, as if in doubt, even in her youth, and it startles the weakest laugh from his cracked, cracked lips.

"I'll be fine," he tries once more, and he is quite pleased that it sounds a tad more convincing this time. It does not take long for more words to spill from his mouth. "_You'll_ be all right, too. We both will be. It's all right. It's going to be all right."

Her red, red eyes stare into his own, as if searching for answers, or perhaps reassurance, that he is not lying, and that his utterances are indeed nothing even close to false hopes.

He offers her the smallest and most fragile of smiles. She smiles back, hers as wide as his is fleeting.

It stabs, and squeezes, and tears everything to shreds.

"Okay," she says, and she rests her head back against his chest, within which his heart still beats as rapidly as before.

For a while, he stays still, at a loss, as he always feels. It is not until his sister's breathing evens out that he allows himself to lean back and sigh and _think_.

And yet, he does not let her go. Not yet, not when his fears still plague his mind, not when he himself is incapable of thinking rationally in the face of something like this.

No, perhaps it is not that. Perhaps, he is simply afraid. He thinks it pathetic, and completely unacceptable, more so upon reminding himself of the fact that it is he who has taken this role upon himself, that it is he who has been the one uttering all the promises that sound so convenient at the time.

That said, he cannot help it, for a demon cannot simply say that there is no helping it. Perhaps, he is simply afraid that he would lose her.

To keep her from dying, he has to find a way. If anything, if _anything_, that is what he must do.

The thought takes root, and grows, never slowing, never stopping, even after the nether dawn has come.

* * *

**temper it, weak one**

Heavily, he breathes, as he rests against the rough bark of a tree. Closing his eyes, he presses the back of his hand against his lips, willing himself to calm down, for continuing with a frenzied mind would undoubtedly be a grave mistake.

By his side, a sword so red lies, and he opens his eyes once again to glance at it as he heaves the shakiest of sighs.

"This sucks," comes a mutter from his little sister, who has chosen to sit next to him, opposite the sword. In her hands is a fruit so ripe, its skin is a bright, bright yellow, almost like the eyes that prowl for his whereabouts, their owners aiming to take the life he is only unwilling to give to them. Not without a fight.

Unknowing, with slumped shoulders, she continues, "That's the fourth time this month. And the month's barely even started! Why won't they just leave us alone?"

He shifts his gaze from her back to his sword, tracing its dull blade with a single finger. He would have to sharpen it soon.

"You're not hurt." He pauses, hesitates. "Are you?"

"I'm not," she says, beaming and puffing her chest out. Her pleased expression, however, does not last, as she soon pushes her lower lip outward in a pout. "But they're really starting to become a bother, y'know? I mean, there are a lot of monsters here before, sure, but something's all wrong. I think."

She looks up, as if waiting for him to meet her gaze head-on. "You didn't do anything bad, did you?"

He is unable to stop himself from pursing his lips. Softly, _softly_. "I…"

This time, it is her who looks away, slumping further down against the tree. "Sorry. You don't need to answer that. I guess it's a pretty dumb question."

He clenches and unclenches his fist. "Is it?"

"Well, yeah! I mean, you're pretty nice, so, thinking about it just now, I don't think you'd do anything bad." She smiles at him. "Right?"

He breathes, _breathes_, and does not reply.

She sees nothing wrong with his silence, carrying on like she always has. "Maybe those guys are just looking for other demons to pick a fight with. Well, it's their loss anyway. You're pretty strong, after all, even if you're too nice."

She pauses, frowning. "And even if you look like you're not having enough sleep," she adds, briefly puffing her cheeks. "You should, you know? I'm fine now. It doesn't really hurt anymore.

"It's pretty weird that all of them just started popping up after it stopped, but I guess that's okay. You can have more rest now. You know, so you can show those guys that they can't just go attacking people whenever they want?"

Without putting much thought into it, he wraps his cloak tighter around himself. It is a rather worn out thing, as all of his clothes are, but it manages to serve its purpose. Barely, admittedly, but it does. He has never worn anything so often as he does it now, and even his sister has noticed, if her insistence on finding something more "fitting and intimidating and _cool_" is any indication.

He chooses to press his lips shut rather than tell her that they are not for aesthetics.

They stay, unmoving. Or rather, he does, while his sister nibbles at the fruit. He would do the same, as he oft does, but he cannot find any motivation to do anything other than sit and breathe and close his eyes, for he has long learned to cherish what silence he could grab with fumbling hands such as his.

For once, however, the silence grows a little too thick, permeating the very air he breathes, and he finds himself nearly asphyxiated. He wrings his hands for half a minute, then a full, and he finally chokes out his sister's name. It is quiet, still too quiet, but it catches her attention, and his hands stop, clasped, as if in prayer.

He can breathe again.

"Yeah?" She blinks, once, twice. "Do we have to go now?"

She does not want to. Not yet. He knows that much. He can _see_ that much. It is weak, but there is a tug at his lips, and he allows it, if only for a brief moment. "No."

"Then what?"

He discards any trace of emotion, trying to seem unbiased, just for this moment. Quietly, gently, he asks, "Do you want to leave this place? Agul Eviland, I mean."

He does not have to wait very long. Not really. If asked to be honest, he would have reluctantly confessed that her reaction to his question is a little too fast, a little too emotion-driven, even if her evident confusion drowns almost everything else.

"Why'd you ask that?" There is a hint of worry there, he recognizes. It is different from the one when she comments on his thin stature, or his downright refusal to eat dinner, for that kind is unmistakably saturated with anger. No, this is a worry accompanied by fear, fear she is trying to hide.

He sets his lips into a grim line.

"Don't you like it here?" she presses. It is accusatory, and anger seeps in. As little as it is, he welcomes it. It is selfish, he acknowledges, but he _welcomes_ it all the same.

"It's not safe here," he says, and it sounds like an excuse to run.

He does not know, really, if that is what he wants. This kind of place, even without the need for scrutiny, it is easy to deduce that it is no place to raise a child. To even consider it to be a place devoid of danger, with the sheer thickness of the magic in the air, would be completely absurd.

He is well aware of that. From the very start, he has been.

"No place is, silly," she retorts, taking a spiteful bite. After swallowing—because he has expressed discomfort at the sight of her talking with her mouth full—she adds, "No place in the Netherworld, anyway. If there were places like that, then this would be a _dumb_ Netherworld." She pauses, thoughtful. "Well, it's not the Netherworld that would be dumb. The _demons_ would be. And that would include us. _I'm_ not dumb though."

"Some places are safer than others." Agul Eviland not being one of such places is a fact that goes unsaid. He does not need to say it. She is more perceptive than most, even for her age.

"Fine," she says, wrinkling her nose. "That doesn't answer _my_ question though. And _don't_ say you asked first, because I'm not going to answer yours 'till you answer _mine_."

"Will my answer affect yours?" he asks in return.

She makes her pout even more obvious than before, because he's asking another question, and none of them are getting answered.

Weakly, he smiles.

"You go be that way," she finally mutters, furrowing and trying her best to seem as authoritative as a toddler can appear to be. "Well, _I_ like this place. You don't _have_ to like it, too, just because _I_ like it, but I do.

"_Still_, if you want to leave because you don't like it, I guess I won't mind all _that_ much. It's not like I can't like the new place as much as I like this one, right?"

"You like it," he echoes softly. He watches her, trying to see if there is even the slightest hint of hesitation in her eyes, or even her voice. He finds none. "You like it even with all the monsters around?"

"Yeah, I guess," she says, shrugging. "We've always lived here. At least, that's what _I_ remember. Plus, it's still sort of nice." She meets his eyes. A smile, wide and proud, plays on her lips. "You've always made sure that we're safe, too, so I'm not worried at all.

"But." She peers down at the fruit in her hands. "But if you really, _really_ want to, we _can_ leave. I'll be fine as long as I'm with you. You've always protected me, after all."

Not long after that, however, she briefly puffs up her cheeks. "Of _course_, it would be better if you taught me how to fight. I can probably learn how to use a bit of magic now. I don't really know what happened, but I don't think anything's gonna go wrong if I try it this time. If I get really good at it, I can help you the next time someone acts stupid and tries to kill us."

He inhales, inhales a little too sharply. Without much thought, he tugs at his cloak. "Etna."

"I'm gonna _have_ to, sooner or later, y'know," she says, but she does not sound as vexed as he thought she would be. "And I'm not dumb enough to fight in the frontlines until I've gotten good enough. Like, _really_ good. So won't have to worry about me all the time. Besides, all demons should know how to fight. I mean, we live in the Netherworld!"

Protests about her youth gather on the tip of his tongue, but he forces them down, swallows them. Instead of spouting words, he exhales, exhales, and thinks.

"Spells then?" he asks, shifting. He is not entirely certain, even with the worries of her own magic destroying her body having mostly diminished. Spellcasting in itself is an art he is not sufficiently familiar with, and that alone poses a danger.

"Well, _yeah_. Magic spells. But it'd be nice if I could learn how to fight using a sword or something." She looks at him, eyes sharp and demanding. "It doesn't _have_ to be a sword. Just something I can use whenever my magic's no good. Like one of those gun things."

"I'll consider it," he says, allowing a small smile. "Finding you a good teacher."

She blinks, her lips turning downwards into a confused frown. "You're not going to teach me yourself?"

He shakes his head. "That wouldn't be wise. The only thing I know when it comes to fighting is how to swing my sword." He tilts his head to the side, towards the direction of his blade. "Even that is self-taught. I might be doing something wrong and I just don't know it."

"You haven't lost up until now though." After spending a good time glaring down, she takes another bite. "That means… That means you're doing everything right. Or at least, if you're doing something wrong, it's not _that_ wrong."

He reaches down, wiping her chin. "It would still be more prudent to find someone more knowledgeable."

"_Or_ we can find some books. I can read those and learn by myself. You don't _have_ to go out of your way to find someone."

"I won't be. Going out of my way, that is." Not really. Not when her concerns and reasons for wanting to learn are undeniably justifiable. "Don't worry. It's not a bother."

"Fine," she finally says, but there is still some fight left in her voice. "But I'm gonna help you with _everything_ from then on. Like, like, looking for food, or even cooking. You can't stop me."

Facing such a matter-of-factly tone, he chuckles, barely managing to hide his discomfort, as it is there, and it seems intent on staying, whatever it is he does. "Very well."

"Right. Good. I don't care if we leave or not anymore then." Beaming, she nods, and goes back to finishing her food.

Looking up, he considers picking one for himself. He does, in the end, before they leave for home, just as the night draws near.

* * *

**ragnarök**

He leaves.

What he has decided before bears no weight, for the very purpose of that is gone, just as she is.

No, what has urged him, pushed him to abandon everything can only be the colors, strings and wisps and clumps of them clinging onto his clothes, seeping into his skin.

Crossing his mind is the thought of destroying the dull husk he has once called a home, but he dismisses it as quickly as it has come, just as he has dismissed other thoughts—taking her back, speaking with the king, working for the king, taking her back, _taking her back_.

He needs somewhere to get back to, he convinces himself, if everything falls apart. The Netherworld is vast, ever changing, and he knows not what awaits him, other than the demons desperate for the king's favor.

Never has he run before, not to such an extent, and he spends months trying to figure things out, armed with the same sword as always, with the same clothes on his back.

It would be simpler, he thinks, if he is simply running away from those who intend to bring back his head, but such is not the case, not really, for he has grown used to that scenario, to driving his sword between hidden ribs, piercing through the thickest flesh. In the first place, he would not have run from that.

However, this is different, much different, in ways he would rather not dwell on, but he has to, as demons are not meant to hear and feel their Netherworld breathing, not to the extent he has, and that in itself is just one problem, one leading to another, and another, and another.

He barely notices, how quickly he accepts. Even now, he does not know if such a life is one he has always yearned, but he adapts, adapts with ease, the only hindrance being the colors and the magic…

And the Netherworld.

It wants its magic back. It does not take him too long to figure out, not when he can hear every hiss, every hum, every whisper it directs toward his ears, chasing him in his sleep, jolting him awake and gasping for breath.

Even then, _even then_, it does not stop, drumming what consciousness it can against his temples, demanding him to return it, return it, _return it_.

"I can't," he whispers back, voice cracking dangerously as he repeats his words, in hopes that it would stop.

It does not, and it grows more furious. The colors start shining brighter, ebbing in and out of existence, but not really, not really, as he starts to understand. It is not difficult to deduce, not when the world starts being drained of the reds and blues and violets, leaving only the dullest monochrome.

It is dying. The Netherworld is dying. It wants its magic back, wants it back, wants it back, and it keeps hissing in the harshest of whispers—_give it back_.

"I don't know how."

_Destroy it then._

He freezes, but only for a moment, a single moment, as he starts seeing hands reaching out. He grabs his sword, clutching the hilt as tightly as he possibly could, akin to one holding onto the feeblest of branches, holding on lest he resigns himself to an end.

He cannot afford that. Not now. Not when he is well aware of the consequences.

It has put forth the solution so quickly. _Destroy it._

"She'll die." Of that much, he is convinced, for returning the Netherworld's magic can only mean returning her magic as well, and she is not ready—no, not weak, for she is stronger and braver than he is, and he would allow it, someday, someday, but not now, not this early.

_Everyone will die if you don't. Destroy it._

The colors detach from everything—flying, swimming, crawling—and the rocks start weathering faster. What semblances of life fades, crumbling into dust the longer he stays in one place.

"I won't let that happen," he chokes out in the midst of the magic, what magic _it_ has not absorbed yet. "But I won't destroy it. I'll find a way. A different way. Please." It is the most he has said in a while, and it is said like a desperate prayer, which is almost always frowned upon, but then there is no one, no one aside from him and the strings and wisps and clumps, and even those are vanishing.

It grows quieter, less clamorous, but it does not stop, watching over his shoulder, watching _him_ as he pores through dusty scrolls and tomes.

Fatigue takes its toll a little sooner that what he would have wanted, that what _it_ would have wanted, but what they want does not keep his bones creaking from the weight.

Respite. That much he needs, and it allows him, if only begrudgingly, dragging him back towards the place from whence he came, pushing his stumbling legs as he scrambles back, for the sooner it is done, the better, the better, _the better_.

But only a field greets him. Only a field. A field. A field. An empty, empty, _empty_ field.

The sight suffocates him, and he runs, _runs_, as the Netherworld screeches in his ears.


End file.
